Fic: Seventeen Forever, 1/1, Rated PG
Um, please ignore me. I am not all together pleased with this story, but I felt like if I didn't post it then I would keep angsting over it instead of writing something else so I am going to bite the bullet and just do it.
Happy "Thank God You're Finally Going To Be An Adult And I Can Stop Feeling So Guilty" Day, Archie ;)
Title: Seventeen Forever
Author: courts
Disclaimer: Wholly historically inaccurate and completely made up. Sorry.
Rated: PG
Summary: You look into his eyes, into the old soul that lives within him, and you see something amazing. You see your past, your future, all laid out in front and behind you, all intertwined with him.
Notes: Okay, so Archie will be eighteen tomorrow, so this is sort of a birthday type fic, I guess? I dunno, I can't sleep so . . . The scenario from 1864 depicts the Camp Sumter Civil War POW camp in Andersonville, Georgia. Everything I know about it I learned in eighth grade Georgia history class and on Wikipedia so I am sorry if it's completely inaccurate. The 1927 scenario revolves around a ticker tape parade in New York City for Charles Lindbergh to commemorate the first Transatlantic flight. There was such a parade, but that's pretty much all that's true.
Thanks: To nightingale_12 for giving this a read-through for me. Thanks, babe! :)
-=-=-=-=-
1864
You are already thinking you'd be better off dead as they usher you into the camp.
Your arm throbs; you can still feel the hot metal piercing your skin and you wish for numbness.
There are no bunks for the lot of you; only a small sea of tents and a few acres of cold, hard ground. You're the first, you and the others who came here with you. The first prisoners of this war that you never expected to find yourself a part of.
You fall asleep at night thinking of Adam, of the look on his face the last time you saw him before he left for battle. He'd asked you to look after his family, to keep them safe. And you had tried to the bitter end, but nothing you could do was enough. You don't even know their fate, don't even know if any member of your family is still alive. All you know is that you don't deserve to be the last survivor.
Survival doesn't seem like something you'll need to worry about for long, anyhow. Conditions at the camp are of a greater horror than you could ever possibly imagine. So many men are sick or dying, or already dead. Food is scarce and medicine is non-existent, yet more and more men are herded into the camp on a regular basis.
You've been there for three weeks, by your count, when he appears. He's small and looks far too young, but you've seen boys as young as twelve stand shoulder to shoulder on the frontlines, so this doesn't surprise you. It's his eyes, though, that's what truly catches your attention. His gaze meets yours on that first day and you know, instinctively, that something miraculous has just happened.
"I'm David," he says the next afternoon as he takes a seat next to you beside one of the tents.
"I'm David, as well," you offer in return. The two of you talk of home, of times and places passed that you both know you will never see again. Fate has brought you both to this horrible place, and neither of you harbors any false hope of ever leaving.
"How old are you, David?" you ask him that afternoon.
"Seventeen," is his reply.
You look into his eyes, into the old soul that lives within him, and you see something amazing. You see your past, your future, all laid out in front and behind you, all intertwined with him.
As expected, you never make it out of the camp, but it doesn't matter. Because the last sight you see are his eyes, gazing down into your own, guiding you on into the next life.
-=-=-=-=-
1927
You stand leaning against a brick wall on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by a swarm of people. Bits of paper fly through the air around you; the cheers of the crowds ring in your ears. You catch sight of Lindbergh being ferried down the street, the opulent star of this hero's welcome.
The boy catches your eye, for whatever reason. He's mixed in with the crowd of onlookers, not really standing out from the crowd. To his left is an older woman who favors him enough to almost definitely be his mother. To his right, a small child, a girl of perhaps eight or nine, clutches at his hand and bounces on her feet as she struggles to see over the heads of the people in front of her. When the boy reaches down to lift the girl into his arms, you are surprised that he possesses the strength.
You lose track of him as the crowd swells and ebbs, and soon you are back in your office, looking out over the streets of New York, now covered in white, like a freak June snowstorm. You tell yourself that you are not searching for a lone black head in the crowds that still mill about below. After all, he couldn't be more than seventeen, if he's lucky.
The day ends and you find yourself back out on those littered streets, watching men with push brooms clearing the sidewalks. Your apartment is only three blocks away, so you start off on your usual walk. As you near the corner of your street, though, you see a familiar figure coming out of the corner store. His black hair falls into his eyes and he shakes it aside hastily, looking up in the process. You find yourself stopped on the street, staring into his eyes.
A sudden rush of recognition overtakes you, stealing your breath and nearly causing your knees to buckle. He notices, dropping his shopping bag and rushing over to you instantly.
"Sir? Is everything alright, sir?" he implores.
You try to wave him off, assure him that you are fine, but his eyes are so close, the depths of them so fathomless and you find yourself being pulled in, at a loss for words.
He insists on helping you back to your apartment, walks all the way to your doorstep even amidst your protests.
As he turns to leave, you call out, "I don't even know your name!"
He turns and smiles as he says, "It's David. I'll see you around."
-=-=-=-=-
2008
You see him across the room on that first day in Hollywood and you can't stop watching him. There is something so hauntingly familiar about him that you can't stop yourself from going over to introduce yourself.
He tells you that his name is David, the same as yours. The two of you talk about music and the competition; you tell him about your solo album, he tells you, with a bit of embarrassment, about Star Search.
"How old are you?" you ask him finally, not sure why you feel the need to ask.
"Seventeen," he replies, though you are skeptical of this answer. He looks closer to fifteen, really. But his eyes . . . they betray him. His eyes are old and wise, full of many years lived, many more experiences than a seventeen-year-old kid has ever had the time to squeeze in.
You recognize those eyes. You see everything that has come before and everything that lay ahead, and a strange sense of déjà vu overtakes you. You can see by his expression that he feels it as well.
And that's how you find him, at last. That's how you know that you are home.
-=-=-=-=-
The End
December 27, 2008
-=-=-=-=-
Happy "Thank God You're Finally Going To Be An Adult And I Can Stop Feeling So Guilty" Day, Archie ;)
Title: Seventeen Forever
Author: courts
Disclaimer: Wholly historically inaccurate and completely made up. Sorry.
Rated: PG
Summary: You look into his eyes, into the old soul that lives within him, and you see something amazing. You see your past, your future, all laid out in front and behind you, all intertwined with him.
Notes: Okay, so Archie will be eighteen tomorrow, so this is sort of a birthday type fic, I guess? I dunno, I can't sleep so . . . The scenario from 1864 depicts the Camp Sumter Civil War POW camp in Andersonville, Georgia. Everything I know about it I learned in eighth grade Georgia history class and on Wikipedia so I am sorry if it's completely inaccurate. The 1927 scenario revolves around a ticker tape parade in New York City for Charles Lindbergh to commemorate the first Transatlantic flight. There was such a parade, but that's pretty much all that's true.
Thanks: To nightingale_12 for giving this a read-through for me. Thanks, babe! :)
-=-=-=-=-
1864
You are already thinking you'd be better off dead as they usher you into the camp.
Your arm throbs; you can still feel the hot metal piercing your skin and you wish for numbness.
There are no bunks for the lot of you; only a small sea of tents and a few acres of cold, hard ground. You're the first, you and the others who came here with you. The first prisoners of this war that you never expected to find yourself a part of.
You fall asleep at night thinking of Adam, of the look on his face the last time you saw him before he left for battle. He'd asked you to look after his family, to keep them safe. And you had tried to the bitter end, but nothing you could do was enough. You don't even know their fate, don't even know if any member of your family is still alive. All you know is that you don't deserve to be the last survivor.
Survival doesn't seem like something you'll need to worry about for long, anyhow. Conditions at the camp are of a greater horror than you could ever possibly imagine. So many men are sick or dying, or already dead. Food is scarce and medicine is non-existent, yet more and more men are herded into the camp on a regular basis.
You've been there for three weeks, by your count, when he appears. He's small and looks far too young, but you've seen boys as young as twelve stand shoulder to shoulder on the frontlines, so this doesn't surprise you. It's his eyes, though, that's what truly catches your attention. His gaze meets yours on that first day and you know, instinctively, that something miraculous has just happened.
"I'm David," he says the next afternoon as he takes a seat next to you beside one of the tents.
"I'm David, as well," you offer in return. The two of you talk of home, of times and places passed that you both know you will never see again. Fate has brought you both to this horrible place, and neither of you harbors any false hope of ever leaving.
"How old are you, David?" you ask him that afternoon.
"Seventeen," is his reply.
You look into his eyes, into the old soul that lives within him, and you see something amazing. You see your past, your future, all laid out in front and behind you, all intertwined with him.
As expected, you never make it out of the camp, but it doesn't matter. Because the last sight you see are his eyes, gazing down into your own, guiding you on into the next life.
-=-=-=-=-
1927
You stand leaning against a brick wall on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by a swarm of people. Bits of paper fly through the air around you; the cheers of the crowds ring in your ears. You catch sight of Lindbergh being ferried down the street, the opulent star of this hero's welcome.
The boy catches your eye, for whatever reason. He's mixed in with the crowd of onlookers, not really standing out from the crowd. To his left is an older woman who favors him enough to almost definitely be his mother. To his right, a small child, a girl of perhaps eight or nine, clutches at his hand and bounces on her feet as she struggles to see over the heads of the people in front of her. When the boy reaches down to lift the girl into his arms, you are surprised that he possesses the strength.
You lose track of him as the crowd swells and ebbs, and soon you are back in your office, looking out over the streets of New York, now covered in white, like a freak June snowstorm. You tell yourself that you are not searching for a lone black head in the crowds that still mill about below. After all, he couldn't be more than seventeen, if he's lucky.
The day ends and you find yourself back out on those littered streets, watching men with push brooms clearing the sidewalks. Your apartment is only three blocks away, so you start off on your usual walk. As you near the corner of your street, though, you see a familiar figure coming out of the corner store. His black hair falls into his eyes and he shakes it aside hastily, looking up in the process. You find yourself stopped on the street, staring into his eyes.
A sudden rush of recognition overtakes you, stealing your breath and nearly causing your knees to buckle. He notices, dropping his shopping bag and rushing over to you instantly.
"Sir? Is everything alright, sir?" he implores.
You try to wave him off, assure him that you are fine, but his eyes are so close, the depths of them so fathomless and you find yourself being pulled in, at a loss for words.
He insists on helping you back to your apartment, walks all the way to your doorstep even amidst your protests.
As he turns to leave, you call out, "I don't even know your name!"
He turns and smiles as he says, "It's David. I'll see you around."
-=-=-=-=-
2008
You see him across the room on that first day in Hollywood and you can't stop watching him. There is something so hauntingly familiar about him that you can't stop yourself from going over to introduce yourself.
He tells you that his name is David, the same as yours. The two of you talk about music and the competition; you tell him about your solo album, he tells you, with a bit of embarrassment, about Star Search.
"How old are you?" you ask him finally, not sure why you feel the need to ask.
"Seventeen," he replies, though you are skeptical of this answer. He looks closer to fifteen, really. But his eyes . . . they betray him. His eyes are old and wise, full of many years lived, many more experiences than a seventeen-year-old kid has ever had the time to squeeze in.
You recognize those eyes. You see everything that has come before and everything that lay ahead, and a strange sense of déjà vu overtakes you. You can see by his expression that he feels it as well.
And that's how you find him, at last. That's how you know that you are home.
-=-=-=-=-
The End
December 27, 2008
-=-=-=-=-